


to become the villain.

by towards



Category: Tales of Symphonia
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-22
Updated: 2014-03-22
Packaged: 2018-01-16 13:49:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1349662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/towards/pseuds/towards
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eventually it becomes impossible to turn the other cheek.</p>
            </blockquote>





	to become the villain.

He is five and he is told he is something unnatural. Something to be feared. A creature that exists in the shadows of the world, never to be seen, never to be spoken of. His father’s breath smells like whisky as he speaks, his large hands shake Forcystus’ thin shoulders to drive the point home.

Everyone is afraid of him, they do not know him but they will always fear him.

He learns to turn the other cheek. He endures stones and raised voices, weathers threats and tries to smile in the face of adversity. He will be the example, and he will prove that he is not a monster. He tells himself this, and somehow, in some small way, it makes life easier.

"Bastards," Magnius hisses through grit teeth, tilting Forcystus’ head back and examining the cut on his cheek. "I can’t believe you just took it."

"They’re just scared," he says, "and if I had fought back that would have just confirmed what they thought about us."

"I would’ve done it."

"I know… but we’re not like the Desians. We’re not evil, Magnius. Someday… Someday they’ll see.”

Lived Long Enough To Become the Villain.

 

At night he preaches to them in the slums. He is a slave, branded for life with the mark of a master. He is property, stolen by another. He is a half-elf who vows that one day they will walk among humans as equals and live freely out in the open.

He is little more than a youthful idealist with a way with words.

Forcystus has felt eyes upon him for a while now for a reason he can’t place his finger on. An intent, almost predatory stare. The feeling of being watched, like… he was being studied.

It’s Magnius who points the man out. The man who has been to their past several rallies. A man who passes for human, but smells so distinctly like one of their own. He sits in the back, away from the cheering crowds, away from mothers and their babies who point and promise that this man will be the face of a generation. Away from the noise, but close enough to still be considered part of them.

(It is not this man who records every action he makes, it is not this man who is later consulted about his candacy for the position of a Grand Cardinal - that is another, and that is a story Forcystus is never told.)

The man never says anything. Not agreement, not disagreement. He never calls them out on their hopeless idealism, never chides them for having their head in the clouds, he simply watches and drinks and seems to consider better times. Many do. Some simply come to absorb his words and hold them close to their heart, as that will surely get them through the upcoming winter months. Forcystus does not engage those who do not wish to be.

The man touches his wrist one night as he passes by his table on the way to his room. His touch is cold, but his eyes are warm - even with his eyesight as terrible as it is, Forcystus can tell that this man is something different from the rest of them. Something… special. His eyes are green and his hair is blue and the smell of his mana is so strong it burns Forcystus’ nose.

(He forgets that in the upcoming years, when bar meetings and the rumbling of freedom was a luxury, before armed guards chase them from city to city, before they forget what smiles and laughter and songs with friends are)

"Do you really believe what you say?" The man asks.

"I do," Forcystus replies.

"Hm," the man says, and the smile on his face says nostalgia but the look in his eyes is dark and stormy. He lets go, and unsure of how to proceed, Forcystus drifts away.

He will not remember the man’s face or voice. He will not recall, decades later, that the man was Lord Yuan of the Four Seraphim, just as he will not recall the faces of the Renegades that sat around the table. What he will remember is the face of the Chosen of Mana as she spied the gathering of half-elves in the bar, how it twisted with disgust. He will remember how he greeted her, cordial and sweet, and how she turned her nose up at him like he was something dirty.

He will not remember that it was the fifth Chosen. He will not remember anything about her other than the fact that she smelled like death and her eyes were hard like jewels.

What he will remember is that night was peaceful, the stars were bright, and the Tower of Salvation looked beautiful against the moonlight.

He’ll recall that it disappeared the next day.

They do not see the blue-haired man again.

—-

Years pass but his goals do not change. His group grows - it’s no longer just he and Magnius, it spans into the hundreds. They whisper of rebellion, they dream of equality. Forcystus grows from a gangly teenager with impossible dreams to a young man with a noble heart. Sylvarant knows his name - some whisper it in awe, others hiss it under their breath in disgust. He is not what they want, he does not bow quietly to human reign, he does not concede to their superiority - he and his companions live freely out in the open.

That cannot be allowed. They can stay no where for long before city guards chase them off, screaming that they’ll all be robbed blind should half-elves be allowed to linger.

They set up camp close to towns, but not in them. The ill and elderly are tended to by the most skilled healers, offers go out to the townsfolk to be healed with magic - but none take it. 

When their herbs run low and their food supplies are short they attempt to venture into towns.

They maintain a respectful distance and are polite and courteous to all that greet them. They are nothing but kind, nothing but sweet, but they are still inferior in the eyes of the ruling class and are shunned from homes and shops. They’re in Palmacosta for hours, searching for a store that will sell them food and medicine, and find themselves pushed out of every doorway or the shops closed the second their feet touch that street.

There is a Desian ranch nearby, but they are not Desians. They wear no uniform, no symbol, they are just people struggling to live.

He bangs on the door to the pharmacy. He pleads that they need food and medicine for the sick, but the door goes unanswered. He offers to give them extra, and still they do not budge.

"Bastards," Magnius grunts.

"They’re afraid of us," Forcystus says, but finds no conviction behind his words. "Let’s turn back before they think the worst of us."

What do these people have to fear from them?

—-

They meet with the King with their hands bound and their heads shoved into the plush carpet, while the Elven ambassadors walk by with their heads held high. They’re eighteen and still full of hopes and dreams. His arms ache and his head hurts, and he’s told that this is all a precaution for he has a half-elf and he is wild and unpredictable.

He conceded to be bound for the King to earn his trust.

He did not agree to be humiliated. 

"What would compel something such as yourself to show your face here," the King says, scorn evidence in his voice. "Before you speak, know your place. I will not listen to the demands of a half-breed."

He feels Magnius tense beside him.

"With all due respect, your majesty," Forcystus says into the carpet, not daring to lift his head. He remembers that they are afraid, and that he is something to be feared, and minds himself accordingly. "You listened to the desires of Elves with grace and elegance. Yet you refuse to listen to us, when we are of your blood."

"Do not speak such blasphemous things in my palace!" The King bellows, and Forcystus feels a heel come down on his back.

"We want only for equality!"

"It shall never be given to monsters!"

"Then we want for a space away from humans to live and thrive!"

"Not as long as I live!"

They’re thrown in the dungeons for reasons he cannot understand. Magnius melts their binds and they escape with the help of human-passing half-elves in the guard.

"Bastard," Magnius growls.

Forcystus says nothing.

—-

"We don’t have time to get there. She needs help now.”

There is no other option. There is a village of half-elves not far from here, but it’s tucked away near the top of the mountain, where humans dare not tread. There is no way they could make the climb as they are, tired, hungry, and sick of being chased to the ends of the earth.

(The king is furious and they find out they were to be executed. They are lucky, and that is perhaps the only reason they’re still alive. )

One of their companions is in labor and they know not what to do. They don’t have the means to deliver a child here, their healers are exhausted, and their nerves are all shot from every attack. They have been peaceful, they are peaceful, and Forcystus gathers her in his arms and turns to the gathered forces.

"There’s a village not far from here. I can take her there myself and regroup with you all in the morning," he says, and he will regret that for as long as he lives.

They greet a deserted village. He holds her close, navigates the dark streets carefully, and gently knocks upon the door of the town doctor. It’s late, but that’s just as well. The doctor appears, bleary eyed, and upon seeing them says just to wait a moment. He disappears back inside, and after a few moments Forcystus hears the sound of a door opening and shutting and hurried footsteps disappearing into town. He thinks nothing of it as the man reappears and ushers them inside.

Forcystus strokes her hair and tells her that things will be alright now. A commotion builds outside, the doctor feigns concern (he doesn’t think it is what it is until it’s too late, he doesn’t connect the dots that they’re being set up until there’s nothing more he can do) and Forcystus offers to investigate. He is naive and an idealistic and he believes, always believes, that the best in people will shine through.

That feeling dies as he’s held down, as he watches his companion (they scream that she is a deciever who merely appears human, that she has done the world a disservice by not confessing to what she is) try to shield herself from the heavy blow to her head. He watches her twitch and seize and screams as the light fades from her eyes and the pool of blood around her head grows.

He wonders, briefly, what these people had to fear from a pregnant girl scarcely old enough to buy her own wine.

He wonders, briefly, what these people had to fear from a man who needed their help.

The screams of the villagers are drowned out underneath his anguished cry and the howl of the wind as it rips them asunder. He sets fire to their houses, barricades the doors, stands back and watches it burn and knows that it isn’t enough.

It won’t be enough.

The others arrive in the morning - they’re not as fast as he is, but they follow the glow of the flame. They find him seated in the center of town with a body in his arms and vengeance in his heart.

"Bastards," Magnius whispers.

"We’ll show them just what they’ve been afraid of," Forcystus murmurs, leans his head against his friend’s shoulder, and weeps bitterly for everything that had died that night.

\- - -

He greets the king again not as a dreamy boy but as a man, standing tall and refusing to step away. The guards try to pull him back from negotations, but Forcystus’ powers are growing and the wind responds to his every call. He doesn’t know spells, he doesn’t understand them, but what he does understand is how to manipulate the forces around him. He has killed so many, freed to many from suffering and captivity, and this is a final plea to cease the bloodshed.

He still wants freedom.

That is all he wants.

He did not want the war that’s begun to ravage Sylvarant. He did not want the deaths of his friends, nor did he want the deaths of the people who serve the country. All he wanted was freedom and that’s why he tries again, desperately trying to end this before it becomes too much. He is twenty-seven and they have fought and scrapped and struggled for every step towards a better world.

They want the slavery of their kinsmen to end. If that ends, if freedom is allowed, then the half-elves will gather up and form their own homeland in the corners of the world where they will not be a bother.

The king concedes. Forcystus smiles, Forcystus thanks him because none want this war to be over more than he does.

When he walks through the palace doors they celebrate. Magnius hauls him into a hug and Krislyassa can’t stop from pulling him in for a kiss. They have victory, and this long, bloody march is now over.

This is what they believe.

But war, as it turns out, is not over. And it is not won by words, but by bloodshed, and the King is certain to get his last shot in. They’re at the gates of town when he smells something strange, pauses just long enough for it to work.

No one knows what to do when faced with a mana bomb.

Forcystus loses countless friends that day. He wakes up with his ears ringing and shrapnel wedged in his chest, tasting blood and terror. He wakes up without Magnius, with the corpses of so many around him.

Some say he lost whatever was left of his mind. 

Legends would say that the Summon Spirit of Wind themselves ripped apart what remained of the Sylvarant Empire. They would say that it was the work of the angels, they would deliberately disguise the truth. They would say anything, anything, but that it was done by a half-elf grief-stricken and screaming for vengeance.

They would leave out how he ripped the King’s head from his shoulders with his bare hands, how the royal family looked on in terror, and how he killed them too for the rule of man was too corrupt to continue. They would never speak of that half-elf’s most loyal companion, and how they were reunited in the city square with the town ablaze.

They would not speak of how the Great Desian Hero Forcystus shielded his friend with his own body without a second’s hesitation from a second bombing, and how that was how he lost his arm and burned most of his body. They would say that it had been done, but they would never admit that it held nobler reasons.

Half-Elves would remember this as the day all slavers set them loose.

Magnius and Forcystus would remember this as the day that they staggered through the woods, half-supporting each other, leaving nothing but a trail of their own blood in their wake, and found salvation in the darkest of corners.

They join the Desians as changed men.


End file.
